Facing It (12 page)

She’d said she wanted him, was willing to fight for him. She’d insisted they could have something together, but it seemed all the fight had drained out of her.

Because of him. Because of his goddamn fear.

He rested an elbow on the door and pinched the bridge of his nose. All that sarcastic anger in her earlier, her quiet withdrawal now—she was hurting. No. That didn’t cover it.

He
was hurting
her
.

“The light’s green.” Her hushed, weary voice washed over him. He straightened and drove on, taking a left at the next intersection.

I believe in you.

His words came back to taunt him. Belief. That involved trust. He’d lied when he told her he believed in her, that he didn’t believe in himself. He wasn’t convinced he was capable of maintaining a long-term relationship, but that wasn’t the real issue was it? The real issue was trusting someone enough, believing she’d never let him go, never let him fall.

But he was letting her fall, standing back, doing nothing, because of the risk to himself. And the hell of it was, he wasn’t saving himself. He hurt so damn bad at the idea of losing her, worse than he ever had over Gina walking away from him, worse even than knowing Gina was dead, that all his second chances there were over and done. He pulled into the lot at the small motel and drew to a stop before their adjacent down-and-out rooms. Shifting into park, he stared at the nondescript stucco wall before him.

“Good night.” With Tick’s folder clutched to her chest, Jennifer pushed open the door and slipped from the car. Killing the engine, he watched her walk to her room, the smooth muscles in her bare back moving in supple grace as she unlocked the door and went inside.

Damn it, there had to be a way to fix this. Cool, moist night air wrapped around him as he locked up the car and walked to his own door. His entire body ached, each muscle taut and singing with invisible tension. He let himself inside, tossed his keys on the dresser, toed out of his shoes.

The connecting doors remained open between their rooms. Acting on a rare impulse, he walked to that doorway, loosening his tie as he went. Barefoot, she stood on the other side, one hand on her door in preparation to close it. Their gazes caught, clung, her eyes damp and glittering. His throat closed, his lungs tightening. She lifted her chin to a defiant angle and didn’t look away.

He held on to the edge of the door, digging his fingers into the hard surface. “Jen, I don’t know how to say this—”

“I think we’ve said enough.” She shrugged, her bare shoulders slumped. “I’m tired, Harrell.”

She made to shut the door and he caught the slab before she could do so. “Jennifer.”

“No.” She blinked, the moist shine in her eyes intensifying. “No more.”

“Listen to me, please.” He shook his head, desperation coiling in him in a wild frenzy. “I thought I loved Gina, that’s true, but what I felt, what she meant…it’s jack shit compared to what I feel about you, what you mean to me.”

Her lips parted on a harsh breath. “Beech—”

“You have to help me, Jen.” His heart thudded, trying to come out of his chest, his palms went damp, hell, his knees wanted to buckle under him. “I’m in love with you and it fucking scares me to death.”

The kitchen light cast a golden glow into the hallway. Her bare feet padded on the polished hardwood. Lord, it was so good to be home. As she passed the living room, a looming shadow at the picture window moved and she jolted against the hallway wall. Her pulse kicked into a wild pace. A scream rose in her throat, unable to find release.

Oh, God.
Stephen
. He’d come for her.

“It’s me.” Chris’s calm voice slid across her jangling nerves, and she slowly relaxed, hand over her heart.

“What are you
doing
?” she whispered as he stepped into the dim light. “You scared me to death.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” He came closer, his tall form lean and lithe in a faded T-shirt and pajama pants. “Used to town sounds, I guess. It’s too quiet out here.”

She crossed her arms over her abdomen, the warmth of home pulsing in her. “I like it.”

He circled one shoulder in an exaggerated shrug and rubbed at the muscles there, as though it pained him. He gazed down at her, but she couldn’t read the expression in the murky hall. “What are you doing up?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” She tipped her head toward the kitchen. “How does hot chocolate sound?”

“If it’s that powdered stuff, really, really gross.”

“Bite your tongue, Chris Parker. I said hot chocolate, the real thing.”

“Then it sounds pretty damn good.”

In the kitchen, she busied herself with the preparation. Something about his presence made the huge room with its high ceiling and old-fashioned cabinets seem small and intimate. He didn’t watch her but studied her now and then, his steady scrutiny on her like a whispery touch before he turned it away again.

Finally, she joined him at the scarred oak table, placing a steaming mug before each of them. One foot tucked beneath her, she rubbed her fingers into a smooth gash on the wood. The table had been in her family for generations; each mark held a distinctive memory.

He cradled his mug and sipped, wincing a little, probably at the heat, before pleasure warmed his eyes. A slow, satisfied smile curled his mouth, softening the hard line of his bottom lip. Her stomach fluttered. “This borders on sinful.”

Somehow, she didn’t need that word from him, simply because it sent another shiver through her. She cupped her palms around her own mug but didn’t drink yet. Warmth seeped into her skin. “Thanks.”

His attention dropped to the rich liquid for a moment. When he lifted his head, he studied her, a speculative gleam in those ice-blue eyes. “So what are you going to do with all that fancy chef’s training of yours now?”

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

His fingers tapped a slow, steady rhythm against the heavy pottery. “Your husband isn’t around to stop you from using it. Cooking obviously meant enough that you went after the best training you could find. What are you doing to do with it?”

“I…” With a wry laugh, she shook her head. “I haven’t really thought about it.”

His face closed with the swiftness she’d grown used to over the past two days, and he dropped his gaze. “Not a lot of time for that yet, I guess. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“No.” On impulse, she laid her hand on his wrist. He jerked slightly at the light contact. “Don’t be sorry.” She laughed again, a rich happiness curling through her. She would be able to cook now. The possibilities danced before her. “You’ve given me something fantastic to think about. To dream about, maybe.”

He darted a look at her, one corner of his mouth quirking, his features slowly relaxing.

Ruthie leaned forward, wanting to ease the final vestiges of tension from his face and body. “Probably not too much demand for a gourmet chef in Coney, Georgia, huh?”

“Don’t know about that. The hunting plantations put on some fancy meals. There’re a couple of really nice restaurants in Albany. Bet there’s a catering market down here too.”

She bit her lip on an excited smile. Her fingers practically itched with the need to take up a knife, to flip a sauté pan, to… Oh, he was right. The options could be endless.

He lifted his mug. “Looks like serious contemplation there.”

“It’s…” Words failed her and she waved an airy circle. “It’s hard to explain.”

“It’s like getting a whole new life,” he said. “Like being reborn, almost.”

“Yes. Exactly.” How did he know how to articulate what she was feeling, what she hadn’t been able to put into words herself? She tightened her hold on his wrist for a second, an affectionate squeeze, and released him. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Surprise flashed over his features. A laugh rumbled from his chest and he leaned back. “Why is that?”

“Because you’ve made this whole mess so much easier. Because for some reason, you seem to understand how I feel and because, well, because I trust you.”

“You’ve known me two days, Ruthie.” He drained his cocoa, his face set in a frown that reeked of discomfort. “That’s not enough time to know you can trust someone.”

“Actions say a lot.” She trailed a fingertip along the rim of her mostly untouched mug. “I’ve had a lot of time the last few years to realize that, to see in retrospect the warning signs I should have recognized and didn’t. Or maybe I did see them and simply talked myself into not believing them.”

His lashes shadowed his cheekbones. He spun the empty mug in a slow circle. “That happens, more than you might think.”

“Have you been hanging out with my sister?”

“What?”

She shook her head. “Tori said the same thing. It’s odd, having my baby sister try to be my crisis counselor. I’m sure she means well, but—”

“It makes you uncomfortable.”

“Yes.” With a light laugh that felt faked and forced, she indicated her cocoa. “Do you want this? I don’t think it’s what I wanted. I’ve barely touched it.”

“Yeah, I would.” With a sheepish grin, he reached for it. “What can I say? I’m used to the microwaved powder stuff and this is the best damn hot chocolate I’ve ever had.”

Warmth spread through her veins with his praise. She’d gotten little of that, if any, over the years with Stephen. “I promise I don’t have cooties.”

A chuckle rumbled in his throat. “Funny.”

Comfortable silence wrapped around them as he savored the chocolaty concoction.

When he finished, he carried the mugs to the sink and rinsed them, setting them on the sideboard. “I’m going to have to pay you to teach me how to make that.” He snapped his fingers. “Hey, there’s an idea for you. Private cooking lessons. Cookie would love it if you started with your sister.”

Eyebrows lifted, she looked at him askance while she gathered her cocoa-making materials and put them away. “If my mother couldn’t teach Tori to cook, no one can.”

“She likes the status quo, I think. He does all the cooking and probably the dishes too.” A small grin playing around his mouth, he used a dishrag to wipe down the counter. “He’s tried to teach her, but she ain’t having any of that.”

The sadness filtered through her all over again. He knew more about her family than she did. She frowned, blinking away a rush of tears. God, she hated that, hated the weak desire to bawl. She should be looking forward, thinking about forging stronger relationships and not missing anything else where her family was concerned.

She should be grateful that she had her life back.

“Hey, don’t look like that.” He smoothed the area between her eyebrows. “Everything’s going to be better.”

Startled, she looked up at him. He was closer than she’d realized and once more his uncanny ability to know what she was thinking surprised her.

He dropped his hand, a sweet half-curve to his mouth. “It’s gonna be good. You’ll see.”

“This is why I like having you here.” She touched his arm just above his elbow, the biceps strong and rounded under her palm. A different warmth curled through her, one she’d forgotten herself capable of feeling.

One step closer and she was in his circle of heat, one movement—she wasn’t sure who shifted first—and their lips met. His mouth danced over hers, a mingling of breath and emotion. Sensation cascaded through her—the shifting of skin and muscle under her palm, the supple movement of his lips against hers, the sweet flicker of attraction she’d long ago lost. There’d been no soft, sweet kisses with Stephen after the first few months of their marriage, only control and humiliation, only his attempts to steal her soul. There was none of that in this kiss, just a tender sharing that made her hungry for more of him. She smoothed his jaw, a hint of stubble abrading her fingertips.

He lifted his head, took a step back. His tongue made a quick foray over his bottom lip. Stunned reaction lingered in his gaze. “We shouldn’t. This is a bad idea.”

“I know.” Her body hummed with a new awareness, his scent on her fingers, the taste of him on her mouth. She clutched her hands into small fists, digging her nails into her palms to cut the urge to reach for him.

A grimace puckered his brows together. “You’re married.”

“Legally. Not in my heart. Not where it counts.”

“Tick would kill me.”

“No. Don’t use him as an excuse.” She shook her head. “Be honest.”

“I’ve got so much crap in my past…I’m no good for you. For any woman.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Hell, it’s only been two days.” He jerked a hand over his nape, still glowering. “You don’t feel like this after two days. It’s not smart.”

“I know.” A small purely feminine smile curled the corners of her lip. It might be a bad idea, but he’d wanted it as much as she had, that was obvious. Mere inches separated them. “But you’re still standing here.”

“Crazy, isn’t it?” His lashes fell to brush his cheekbones and he blew out a long, unsteady breath. “I must be insane.”

“It’s a plain old-fashioned kiss, not a lifetime commitment, Chris.” She dared to touch his tight jaw, and he turned preoccupied blue eyes on her. “It’s a simple attraction with what feels like a dash of friendship thrown in.”

“You sound awful happy about that.”

A muted giddiness bubbled in her. “I thought…I thought he’d killed everything inside. Yes, I feel something for you, and yes, that makes me happy.”

“Ah, damn it, Ruthie.” He closed his eyes again. “This is not good.”

“Listen, neither of us wants a romantic entanglement, obviously.” She waited for him to look at her. “But you’re a good man and one thing I could really use right now is a good friend.”

“Just one problem with that.” An ironic expression twisted his mouth. “I don’t go around kissing my friends, Ruthie. They’re all guys. And I definitely don’t think about…never mind.”

And her brother thought he was gay? The laugh burst from her before she could help it and she clapped a hand across her lips. His brows went upward once more. “What?”

“I’m sorry.” Her fingers muffled the words, her giggles still attempting to choke her. “I really am. I shouldn’t laugh, but—”

“But what?” He rested his hands at his hips, just below the waistband of his pajama pants, and looked at her in quizzical confusion. When she didn’t answer, merely shook her head, her shoulders trembling with suppressed mirth, he rolled his gaze heavenward. His exhale reeked of exasperation. “Ruthie.”

“Later. I’ll tell you later, I promise.” She sighed. “I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed an evening this much.”

His face softened. “All right. Here’s the deal. We’re friends. No kissing, no fooling around. Just friends.”

She could handle that. Shoot, that was all she could handle right now. The last thing she needed was to get wrapped up in another man before she fixed everything Stephen had damaged or destroyed. She held out her right hand. “Deal.”

He eyed her a moment before his large hand surrounded hers. “Deal. Now go get some sleep.”

He’d lost his mind. That was the only explanation.

Agreeing to be Ruthie’s friend? He’d lost it for sure. He didn’t have female friends, even avoided dealing with the wives or girlfriends of his male friends and colleagues. He could handle Tori in limited doses, because of her serene calmness, could spend an evening with Troy Lee and his fiancée Angel because of Angel’s open honesty, but Caitlin Falconetti with her quiet, icy control set him on edge. He didn’t date anymore either, not since his disastrous early efforts after Kimberly, when he’d been so damn determined to be normal again.

The only problem was he wasn’t normal. He’d never be. How could he?

Sitting on the side of the narrow bed, he rested his head in his hands and blew out a harsh breath. Damn it. He shouldn’t have gone downstairs in the first place. It was just a nightmare, not reality, and he’d let it drive him out of bed. He shouldn’t have let her draw him in with sinful cocoa, easy conversation and her sweet smile, either. And Jiminy Cricket, he shouldn’t have kissed her.

Or had she kissed him? He still wasn’t sure and it didn’t matter anyway. It had happened, it was a bad idea, it was over, it was done.

They were friends. He’d actually agreed to be her
friend
.